How Many Days?
by The Black Swan
Summary: What happened to Erik after the Opera Populaire burned down and Christine left him? A new woman, a new life, and perhaps, a new family. Has Erik finally found a place of rest and peace, or will old flames come back to burn him? Rated M for later chapters.
1. Of Findings and Fevers

So this is my first Phantom of the Opera story. I really hope you guys like it! Please read and review, I don't care about flames. I don't own Phantom of the Opera, Erik, but Odessa and her family are mine.

**Chapter 1: Findings and Fevers**

The slow, lurching movement of the shadowy figure pulling itself out of the black water of the Seine River fifty feet from Odessa Laroque's front door almost sent her into a state of panic. She watched with wide eyes and trembling hands latched onto the curtain of the window, as the shape shuddered on the lightly snow covered ground, as if taking a final breath and dieing.

"What is it?" the small boy clutching Odessa's skirt in his pale little hands whispered against her side.

"I am not quite sure, Dartagnan." The six year old had been the first to see it and had pulled his oldest sister to the window. Now, most of the children were pressed against Odessa, curious about the ghostly form in the night.

"Should I go out and see what it is?" Byron asked. The oldest boy of the family and certainly the tallest was holding a lantern in his right hand and a rifle in his left. Odessa nodded and pulled her cloak of the hook next to the door.

"I meant myself, not you," he protested. Odessa brushed passed him to open the door. The bitter wind stole her breath and she shivered violently.

"I am the one in charge of this family. I say what we will or will not do," she answered with a coldness that matched the wind that had blown into the room. Byron stepped toward her, intent on detaining her to make her remain behind while he played the man of the house. "Not now, Byron. It might be hurt. Give me that lantern."

He hesitated, and then handed it to her reluctantly after the stern glare he received. If it hadn't been such a serious situation, she might have giggled at the scowl on her brother's face. They trekked down the small hill their house sat on over looking the river silently.

Approaching cautiously, Odessa held the lantern out far ahead of her. The yellow circle of fine light flooded over the body of a tall, broad man with a lean stomach and hips laying face down in the snow. A black mop of hair covered his head, his white shirt wet and clinging to his back and chest. Odessa nudged him with her foot, and when he didn't move, she bent and rolled him over.

"Oh my!" she yelped, jumping back from the body and dropping the lantern.

His face was a paradox in its finest. The left side was a perfectly chiseled work of art. Beautiful, bow shaped lips curved against a strong chin with a slight cleft with a long Roman nose and oval eyes beneath perfectly groomed eyebrows. How perfect it was, except the right side, just below the nose, extending to the side of the head and forehead, was marred to such an extreme that it killed all beauty that he could ever hope to have.

They stood there for a moment, staring at him.

"What do we do with him?" Byron asked. Odessa shook out of her reverie, still startled by the shock of his face. "I wonder if he's even still alive." Odessa nodded and knelt beside him again, edging closer very slowly. She laid tow fingers lightly against his throat, checking fro a pulse for reassurance of his death.

"He's still alive, Byron! Get Rupert! We have to get him inside!" She swept her cloak off her shoulders and covered his body with it as much as possible, for he was far taller than she.

"Odessa! We cannot take him into our home! What if he is a criminal or something of the sort? I simply will not allow it!" Byron grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly away. She jerked back sharply and slapped him upside the head.

"Did our mother and father teach you nothing? We turn no one in need away! This man is in need, whether if he can say it or not. I don't care what he is. We cannot leave him for dead. That, _I_ will not allow. Get your brother and a blanket, _now!_" she snapped, pushing him forcefully in the direction of the modest home. Byron looked shocked, but turned unwillingly and headed back up to the house, grumbling on the way.

Odessa bent over the fallen man and pulled his head into her lap. As she gazed at him, she realized that his face didn't look so bad. After the initial shock of seeing this man's face, she wasn't so displeased.

_I bet some of that special salve Mama put on Byron's scars would help take away some of the marring of his skin. I doubt it will ever be completely gone._

Odessa touched his face softly and jumped at the fire within his skin. The fever flushing his cheeks and throat gave telltale signs of illness. Leaning close, Odessa listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing, which she found to be wheezy and faint. Pneumonia had set in, but was still in it's first stage; she hoped that there was still time.

Odessa let her hand rest on his cheek, looking over her shoulder for Byron and Rupert. _He's not going to last much longer if we don't get him inside. Where are they? What's taking so long?_

She practically jumped out of her self and nearly screamed with terror when a vice like grip clutched her wrist. The man's eyes where open, but unfocused and not directed toward her.

"Please," she heard him whisper through a congested chest and throat, "help me, Christine. Christine…" She flicked the stray hair from his eyes and murmured nonsense reassurances, praying for Rupert and Byron's return. His blue-green eyes closed again; his grip on her wrist slackened. _Christine…_the name echoed through her head like the resounding note of a bell.

"We're here. We have the blanket!" cried an enthusiastic Rupert, obviously extremely excited to be in service.

"What you took you so damn long? Never mind, let's lay the blanket down and roll him on top of it. Rupert, Byron, you take the shoulders, I'll get his feet." They rolled him onto the blanket, and then with a count of three, hefted him up and carried him into the cottage. He was heavier than she had anticipated, causing her to stumble and almost fall while trying to climb the hill.

"My room, boys. It's the biggest." They guided him into her room and laid his limp body on her bed. "I need more blankets. Undress him; his wet things will only make him sicker. Get him into bed, cover him well, please." She rushed out of the room and down the hall, practically ripping open the hall closet door to retrieve the extra blankets they kept for the especially cold winter nights. She turned sharply when she heard faint whispers and giggles behind her.

"You nosey twits! Get back from there! Go to bed! You've had enough thrills for today." They all stood there, just staring at her as if she had just broken into a foreign language. "Go!"

At their sisters last command, the four girls and one boy scattered and ran for their rooms.

_Children!_ She thought. She strode swiftly into the room with an armful of some blankets.

"How is he? Has he awakened?" she interrogated and fell silent at the disappointing shakes of their heads. She pulled a chair up to the bed where the man lay wrapped tightly in the blankets. She threw another over him and turned to her brothers.

"Retrieve for me a rag and heat some water in the fire, Byron. Rupert, bed for you."

"But-" he began to whine.

"Now! I have everything under control here. Please, just do me a favor and go to bed." She turned pleading eyes on her little brother. He opened his mouth as if to protest again, but closed it, looking guilty. Odessa stopped him a moment.

"Please try and keep this undercover. I know all about propriety, but I would like it if no one knew until we find out more about our guest." Rupert stared at her blankly. "Tell your brothers and sisters the same."

"You're becoming more like mum everyday," he observed, "and it's nice."

"I could only wish to be half the woman our mother was," she murmured.

Byron rushed in with a warm bowl of water and a rag. She motioned for him to set it on the table beside the bed.

"You need to get some rest, also Byron. You're going to be responsible for getting the children off to school in the morning." he nodded silently and pulled Rupert out of the room with him; the door shut quietly.

Odessa turned her attention to the man lying on her bed barely breathing. She dug in the drawer of a dresser in the corner, searching for the medical bag her doctor of a Father used, that was now shut away. A triumphal "a-ha!" escaped her lips when she located the bag.

She stirred the glowing embers in the fireplace back into a warm fire before sitting again. She took out a green salve and spread some along his upper lip and on his chest in hopes of clearing out his airways. Odessa was pleased to find that his nasal and throat cavities began to clear immediately. Wrapping his throat in the hot rag she got up and began to warm bricks in the fire. When they were good and hot, she began to stack them on tap of him, attempting to burn the fever out of him.

After hours of rolling him back and forth in the bed, changing blankets, and replacing lukewarm bricks with hot ones, Odessa felt the utmost despair when his fever still had not broken. In his delirium, she restrained him by clutching his hands and leaning down upon him. He cried for help, for mercy, but most of all, his Christine.

The fever was still raging under his skin through the morning, the afternoon, and well into the night. Odessa left his side only to fix the children their meals and to bring the stranger a flask of water to force down his throat. She labored with a passion for this stranger. She didn't know why she wanted him to win this fight so badly.

Finally, after a day and night of work and worry, his fever broke and he rested easily. Odessa sighed as she wiped the sweat from his brow and removed the bricks from the bed. _I'm so glad that's over! Now I just have to wait for him to wake._

Sitting quietly, staring into the fire, Odessa began to think about how many times she had had to go through this process. With seven children in the house, Odessa had gone through many fevers and flues. _If only Babette would help. It's selfish over her to not help me keep the family together._ As soon as the thought went through her head, Odessa felt overwhelmingly guilty. It wasn't fair to blame the claustrophobic feel of her household on her sister. She had children of her own to takecare of.

Her mother taken with tuberculosis and her fatherkilled by thefoul hands of highway bandits, left Odessa and Babetta with seven brothers and sisters.After Babetta got married to her childhood sweetheart, Odessa (the oldest and strongest of the family) took over the running of the house. She worked hard for her family, caring only for their needs, hers coming after. She didn't have time for dreams of becoming a fine lady with jewels and hundreds of people waiting on her, and most of all, she didn't have time for love. Five years of educating and taking care of the children had transformed her from the shy, delicate girl she had been, into the stronge hearted, iron willed woman she is now.

Odessa glanced over at the stranger. She crossed her arms on the edge of the bed and laid her head upon them. _I'll just rest my head for a while._ She closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep, oblivious to the world around her.

Authors Note:

I hope you guys like this chapter. I worked hard. Please leave a contribution in the little box.


	2. Awake and On Fire

Chapter 2: Awake and On Fire

He couldn't remember where he'd been. Just cold, dark water, snow and ice numbing him to his soul, then almost unbearable heat that he welcome to cure his numbness. He'd been stuck in a black cloud of death, for how long, he didn't know. The faces of those who had hurt him floated mockingly above him. The happy faces of Christine and her love, the Vicomte, smiled and kissed each other, then turned their cold faces and smiled at him with smiles that didn't reach their eyes.

How many times had he seen that same expression in his life? The look of terror, then pity. He hated their pity. They could never understand the life he'd been forced to live. They couldn't get passed his disfigurement to see into the soul of a man who yearned for the day someone would look at him and he could see in their eyes, love. A love for him that was absent of pity, horror, or alarm.

Only once had he seen that expression; it had lined the face of his precious Christine, though she too, eventually fell prey to the never-ending cycle of pity where the smile left her eyes and the love left her heart.

He had thought, perhaps Christine could have been the one. The one single person would look through the darkness and say, "I'm here!" The only one he'd known that would love him.

Through his feverish dreams of past horrors and memories, came another face. Only for seconds at a time could he blearily make out an ebony waterfall of silk and oddly colored storm silver eyes rimmed in midnight. Soft whispers echoed in his ears, whispers that caressed his mind and warmed his tired spirit.

_I don't want this anymore. I've nothing left, nothing to live for. I just want to rest. Rest forever,_ his soul would say wearily. However soft the voice, its reply was strong and commanding.

_Please don't give up!_ It would cry,_ you can't quit now, not when you've worked this hard to stay alive this long!_

_But I'm just so tired, _his soul would answer and faintly the voice would envelope him in warmth and say: _Then I shall carry you._

He slipped in and out, went everywhere he could. Time was of no importance and made no sense at all in this dark, foreboding dream place. Seconds passed like hours, hours passed like blinks of the eye. He heard things, like the whispers that carried him, the crackle of fire, and the snowfall on the ground. It did not occur to him that snowfall could not be heard, nor that fire could not be tasted, nor melodies of air be seen. Confusion and fright drove him mad. He heard, he felt, but he could not hear or feel. Physical consciousness lacked and he was left naked with perception as his only cover.

At last, when he was on the verge of throwing himself at the feet of the Reaper of Death and letting himself be dragged over the edge and into the pit of mad death, the heat dissipated and soon died out all together. He could breathe clearly, the mad darkness that flooded his mind dried up and he felt peace at last.

The peace felt good upon his skin and in his mind, like cool stream water washing over slick, water worn pebbles. Joy felt like a breeze wafting the fresh sent of lilac under his nose. But most of all was the relief of escape from his dark prison cell. It tasted like sun warmed honey on a butter biscuit of love made for him buy his caring mother.

It too, did not occur to him that he'd never known a mother.

He felt himself rising toward the surface of the lake of unconsciousness that was the barrier between awake and asleep. He hesitated, afraid of what he would see, but could not stop him from opening his eyes.

Even with open eyes, he still saw black. His heart slammed in his chest and his breathing accelerated. _I'm blind!_ He thought through panic. Calm trickled over him when his vision blurred and cleared. It was dark, but pleasantly warm. He sat up slowly and glanced around him. The room was fairly large, with white, bare walls and a window on the wall opposite the door. A fire across from the bed upon which he lay made the room glow a soft ginger and gold.

His gaze traveled from the fireplace to the floor. A small child, no more than three or four sat playing with a small doll of cloth and yarn. She looked up at his movement. She was small, with a pixyish face, light blonde curls and huge, doleful cobalt blue eyes.

She leapt up with a squeak and ran out the door, letting it slam behind her. Her actions shocked him and immediately his hand went to his face.

His mask was missing! She had run from the sight of his face, he was sure. Gloom overtook him again. _I really am nothing but a monster…_

He heard a voice approaching. Attempting to throw the covers back, he realized he was completely unclothed and remained in the bed.

"See!" the door opened and the blonde child came in, pulling a young woman behind her by the skirt.

She was one of the more eye-catching girls he'd seen, with black hair that fell to her waist in deep waves, set against delicate white skin. Full red lips, high cheekbones and beautiful sliver eyes were certainly her best features. She was tall, especially for a female. He recognized her face as the one who had whispered to him in his delirium and was stunned into a quiet stupor.

"Yes, I see Emilie. Our guest is awake," she soothed the child who was jumping in place and painting wildly. "Good day, monsieur. We've been waiting for you."

He liked her smile; it was gentle and warm. Her smooth lips curving over straight, white teeth in an almost sensual manner, mad his stomach tighten. Her smile reached her eyes.

"Where…? Who…?" he struggled for words. His voice was harsh, almost grating, the complete opposite of the bell-like quality of tone it had once been.

"Fetch him something warm to drink please, Emilie," she gave the blonde child a push, which left the room in a flurry of giggles.

The woman sat at a chair that had been pulled up beside his bed.

"She's quite taken with you. Been sitting in here for awhile," she murmured with an inviting attitude. "You are in the humble village of Endroit des Fantômes. My name is Odessa Laroque. You washed up from the river just down the way. We took you in and cared for you; you were plagued by a fever," she explained. He found that he liked her voice, also. As gentle as her smile, she was soft spoken, her voice as sweet as a nightingale and fluid, comparable to droplets of rain running down bare skin.

Emilie bounced eagerly into the room with a cupful of blessed sassafras tea, which he accepted with a nod of thanks.

"Well, monsieur, Emilie and I will leave you, for the time being. You still need rest," Odessa said, standing to leave. Emilie had already disappeared ahead of her. His hand shot out and arrester her as she got up.

"Wait, please, Madam…"he struggled to form a sentence. "May I have my belongings? I really must be on my way. I'm afraid I've been quite a nuisance so far…" Odessa shook her head almost violently.

"I think not, monsieur. You are still far too ill to be wandering about the countryside in this weather. You never know how long it will be until the next town," she paused to look at him, and noticed he bent his head down and to the right to shield her view of his face. _He's ashamed,_ she thought._ Ashamed of his face. Maybe…that's why he was out in the snow and cold. Did he try and drown himself?_ "Why were you out in the first place, monsieur? Surely you would feel it too cold to be taking a dip in the river this time of year."

"You have nerve, woman, to be asking such impertinent questions! Have you no manners?" He was shocked by her questions and still more shocked by her retort.

"My questions are solely for the purpose of gaining knowledge about the type of person I've brought into my home. I have seven children in this household and they are my top priority. Out here, monsieur, we don't fool with high-class manners. We care enough about others to help them when they need it. And you, good monsieur, need help," she stood with fists upon hips and a fiery blaze in her eyes.

"And what do you imply by that comment, Madam?" he dreaded her answer, though he didn't know hwy her opinion meant so much to him when they had only know one another for a few minutes.

"I implied that no matter how you feel about your face, it doesn't make you the person you are and does not give you leave to expose yourself to the elements to kill yourself," she sat on the bedside. He could only stare at her for a few moments; completely at a loss for words His temper flared and sent a fervor of explosive anger into his voice.

"You certainly are bold! You don't understand half of what you are speaking about!"

"Believe me, I do. I know it has to do with a Christine and the Opera Populaire," she almost regretted her snap when she saw him cringe. "Moreover, I'm not bold. When you live the type of life I do, you find you do not have the time nor the breath to go skirting around and alluding to the subject that needs to be discussed. On that lovely note, I shall leave you. I have mouths to feed. Sleep, we will speak more in the morning. Goodnight, monsieur." He didn't know what to say. _How can one possibly respond to that?_

"Good evening, Madam," he answered absently. She paused at the door, her hand upon the knob. She glanced at him over her shoulder and he was caught for a few seconds in her black majesty. Her hair gleamed and danced in the firelight; her eyes glittered kindly, transforming her whole face into a mysterious creature of another world.

"It's actually Mademoiselle. Although, I insist that you call me Odessa."

"You may call me Erik." What in the sweet name of music had possessed him to allow her that privilege? He wasn't quite sure.

She nodded and smiled the delightful smile he liked that reached he eyes. "Good evening, Eric."

"Goodnight."

The door shut softly behind her. Erik slid down in the bed and twisted for a comfortable position. He didn't know what to make of this encounter. She was beautiful, kind, and yet, as hard as stone.

_I'll deal with this in the morning,_ he thought with a sigh and closed his eyes to rest.

In the hall, Odessa leaned against the door and pressed her hand upon her heart. _I can't let him effect me this way! Well, it can certainly be said that he is awake and on fire!_ The engagement had been all but what she had planned. Never had she expected to be so attracted to this man. _I must put a stop to this right now. I am simply acting as his nurse. It will not continue further._

At least, she hoped.


End file.
